Time Heals All Wounds
by RonaldWeasley3180
Summary: "Time heals all wounds." John Watson would very much like to cause bodily harm to whoever came up with that ingenious idea.


**A/N: HI! SO I've been struggling with writer's block for a really long time now, and for those of you who are reading "A Place to Stay and a Heart to Love" know that quite well…. So, to sort of get my creativity back on track, I wrote this little ficlet. It's really short, but meant to be like that. Enjoy!**

**Pairing: **Johnlock

**Rating: **T for violence

**Read on!**

In. Out. In. Out._ Breathing is becoming increasingly difficult. Flashes of orange, red, white, black, brown, painfully blinding your vision as you run, escape from hell. The heat surrounds you, white hot._

_Your skin burns, blistering and peeling under the heavy camouflage suit. Sweat pours out from under your helmet, soaking your face and blurring your vision more. Screams, yells, explosions fill your ears as you turn this way and that, trying to find a place where you can gain your bearings, clean your eyes, strategize. _

_Your feet carry you farther and farther, subconsciously taking one step after another; whether into the foray or out is unknown to you. Your hand reaches up, wipes at your eyes, hoping for some sort of vision, some way to see, to hang on to life for just a little longer. _

_You blink your eyes, momentarily regaining vision enough to scan your surroundings. Bodies are strewn across the field, and your medical instinct kicks in. You zone in on a curly head of hair, dark brown and covered in blood. _

_You blink, just to make sure you aren't imagining things. When the image does not fade, you begin to run closer, wiping at your eyes every now and then to remove sweat and clear your vision. _

_The body seems to be staying where it is, no matter how fast your run and you begin to panic. What is happening to you? You keep running, shutting your eyes for a few seconds and clearing your mind. Taking as deep a breath in as possible, considering the circumstances, you prepare yourself, and open your eyes. _

_But instead of the battlefield, you seem to be running in some sort of grey limbo. Your mind jumbles once more, and your steps falter. You look down, and see that you are no longer in your camouflage suit; rather, your attire consists of pants, a sweater, and some sort of jacket._

_Your surroundings come into focus, and you see that you are in London once more. The same head of curly hair is lying on the pavement up ahead, the same pool of blood surrounding the body. Your breath catches as you absorb the scene. That hair, that coat, the scarf, everything is painfully familiar, and that knowledge only makes you run faster. The crowd parts as you approach, but keeps you from touching the body. _

_The body you have come to love, to cherish, to long for like nothing else. You open your mouth, scream his name to the skies, wishing, hoping, praying for a miracle to save the man you love. _

"Sherlock!"_ The scream rips itself out of your throat, the agonized cry making your heart ache more. Your body shakes, trembles, and your knees give way. You stare at his prone form, tears clouding your vision. Your hand reaches out, quaking violently as you try to get one last touch, one feel of his hair through your fingers. As if to mock you, your fingers land on his neck, and you check for a pulse automatically, unthinkingly. _

_The silence beneath your fingers stops you, makes your heart stutter. _

_No pulse. _No pulse._ The chattering around you suddenly reaches full volume, and you hear women wailing at the sight, and the sound of a gurney reaches your ear. Hands pull you away from his body, making room for the paramedics to take his body from the scene. _

_You fight against your captors, fight to be near him once more, but the arms are unyielding, and your body flops to the ground, sobs wracking your frame. _

_"John! Doctor Watson! Doctor!" His voice screams in your mind, in your ear, and your body shakes harder. _

_"Doctor! Wake up, Doctor!"_ A small hand shakes your shoulder, and you sit up abruptly.

"Sherlock!" You scream out once more, hoping it is he who is shaking you awake.

Your eyes open, and you blink a couple of times in order to see your surroundings. Wetness stains your cheeks, and sheets tangle around your legs, and you look to see Ms. Hudson standing next to your bed, a mask of worry covering your face, and tears wetting her eyes.

"M-Ms. Hudson? What are you doing here? Where's Sherlock?" You shake your head, wondering what is happening to you. Ms. Hudson lets out a choked sob, before breathing deeply and composing herself.

"John, Sherlock is gone. You know that! Every morning, this routine; this cycle happens every morning! You were crying in your sleep, dear man!" Ms. Hudson sniffs once more, taking shaky breaths in and out. Looking at you one last time, she exits the room.

You reach your hands up to your face, and wipe angrily at your tears. The nightmares are always the same, and your reaction never varies. Deep down inside, though, a small flame of hope burns, fueled by the thought that maybe, one day, Sherlock might return to you. And you know this thought is ridiculous, because he is dead, and six feet under, but the flame still burns, and that is what keeps you living.

It has been three years, two months, and 12 days.

And every day, without fail, your mind takes you back to that night, the flame growing in size at the sound of your name from his lips, and diminishing once more as you awake.

The pain only grows with time.

**A/N: Please leave a review! This is my second Johnlock ficlet, so constructive criticism would be muchly appreciated. Thanks!**


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